The Passion of Dolssa (34 page)

We stood toward the rear of the nave at Sant Martin’s—Plazensa, Sazia, Symo, and I. All Bajas sat before us. Some were crying. Most were stiff and still. All of us, waiting.

Friar Lucien de Saint-Honore sat in the wings to one side of the altar, also waiting.

The
bona femna
who’d died filled my thoughts.

How old was she? Which village had been hers? What was her name? Who had been her friends long ago? How many men and women, boys and girls, had bowed to her daily, seeking her blessings, long ago, before the Church and the French won their wasting war and drove the friends of God into hiding?

Dominus Bernard chanted the liturgy, but his Latin was clumsier than usual, with Friar Lucien watching. He elevated the host, and we all bowed our heads. Senhor Guilhem approached the altar to receive it. Lucien de Saint-Honore, Na Pieret, and a few others received the host, while the rest of us adored the Savior’s body and blood from our places. I saw Na Pieret’s gaze move quickly to Symo, standing with us, and just as quickly back down to the floor. She was worried. She didn’t like his choice of place. I wondered about it myself.

Dominus Bernard seemed done with the Eucharist, when, to our astonishment, another man from the back strode down the aisle to receive it.

Plazi, Sazia, and I exchanged a glance as he passed by. It was the knight, Senhor Hugo de Miramont. He cut through the chapel like a blade.

“He’s here,”
Plazi said.

“I
knew
it,” moaned Sazia. “They were allies from the first.”

I watched as the knight approached the friar, searching for a hint of comradeship. Had Senhor Hugo, in fact, summoned the inquisitor?

Their eyes met. That they knew each other, no one could doubt. A flush rose in Lucien de Saint-Honore’s cheeks. He held his head high. They’d won. Or so he believed.

The sight of Senhor Guilhem and Lop filled me with loathing.

Symo watched me sideways. The memory of his appearance last night, and of my embarrassing display of weakness before him, left me sick. I’d embraced him. A woman had been dying. A woman who wasn’t Dolssa. But dying, cruelly, all the same.

“Why are you here?” I whispered in Symo’s ear.

He looked at me as though I were the greatest idiot in Christendom. “Because you’re my half-wit
s
rre
,” he said. “That’s what we told the friar. So now we’re stuck with it.”

“It’s what
you
told the friar,” I said.

His forehead furrowed. “Both of us,” he said, “if we knew then what we know now, might have made different choices.”

“I’d never have gone to San Cucufati,” I said, “if I’d known what trouble I’d find there.”

Sazia eyed us both malevolently and held a finger over her lips.

Dominus Bernard finished the Eucharistic celebration and carefully wiped and placed the sacred vessels, then turned to Friar Lucien de Saint-Honore.

“Today,” said our priest, “we will be favored by a sermon from a member of the Order of Friars-Preachers, Lucien de Saint-Honore. He brings us a message from Tolosa.” With that unceremonious introduction, Bernard sat down.

Friar Lucien rose. He had retonsured his head so that his white crown poked out from his ring of dark hair like the sun-bleached homes on Bajas’s hill. His black cloak and white habit hung over his tall frame. He spoke not in Latin but in our tongue, though his northern French accent colored his voice. And what a voice! He seemed to sing. His voice filled the
sanctuary and rippled off its walls. It danced with the starry motes of light drifting down in the morning air.

“My friends,” he began. “I greet you in Our Lord’s name, and on his errand. I bring to you the salutation of the Lord Bishop of Tolosa, Raimon, and all the brotherhood of the chapter in Tolosa of Sant Dominic’s Order of Preachers.”

The friar produced a sheaf of parchment leaves emblazoned with a red seal. “I come with the authorization of the Holy Father, who, as Apostle and head of the Church, and in great concern for the safety of your souls, before his death asked the friars of my order to assist the Church in conducting inquisitions throughout Provensa.” He paused to read straight from the leaves. “‘All princes, lords, knights, and nobles, magistrates, rulers, royal officials, and officers of law are hereby enjoined to assist this effort, and to lend their authority, and the full might of law, to the care and protection of the Church.’”

Senhor Guilhem sat tall and proud.
The care and protection of the Church
sounded so right, so worthy and necessary, rolling off Friar Lucien de Saint-Honore’s golden tongue.

“‘Any who are slack in their duties as princes and rulers in Christendom must face interdict, excommunication, anathema, and loss of lands and holdings, as needs may dictate.’”

Senhor Guilhem still sat tall, but his jaw now worked as though he chewed on a tough chestnut. Dominus Bernard’s face was ashen.

“Heresy has run rampant among you.” Friar Lucien tucked away his papers. “Many of you were deceived by the wonders demonstrated by Dolssa, the so-called holy woman.”

Quiet crying echoed in the sanctuary at the mention of her name.

“So much so that you weep at her loss,” said the indignant friar, “rather than exulting in God’s victory over error.”

The mourners grew still.

“To finish the work that God’s crusading army began in this corner of the Lord’s vineyard, and to root out the pernicious influence of this heretical impostor, I have come to investigate this area, to ascertain what errors still lurk in Bajas. We begin tomorrow. Your priest, Dominus Bernard, shall supply me with your names, and from these I shall issue summons. I shall speak with each of you, in turn.
Tozẹts
from ages fourteen and up;
tozas
, twelve.”

Santa Sara.
Fourteen? Twelve? Fathers and mothers cast anxious glances at their older children. No one seemed enraptured by the friar’s honeyed voice now.

My sisters and I knew one another’s fears. We would be named by every half-grown child in town as Dolssa’s protectors. I took Sazia’s hand—that same hand that would have killed her—in mine. She would not be with us today, were it not for Dolssa.

“Take comfort,” the friar said. “Heaven stands ever ready to welcome the sinner who repents. I am authorized to offer full clemency and pardon to any who come forward of their own free will and confess to their errors, whether in thought, in deed, or in association. Not to those who knowingly teach heresy, of course, for their lot is fixed, but for those who have succumbed to falsehood. If they come to me with a penitent heart, cooperate fully in our investigations, and reveal all that they know, they shall be pardoned. Any who come to me today, at the church of Sant Martin, will find me ready to hear their confession.”

Thus he drew the noose around us. How was it done so neatly, with no weapons but words and a letter with red wax?

Many would seize hold of such an offer. All it would take was one.

The smell of incense made it hard to breathe. My legs twitched to run out of the church.

Their lot is fixed.
Poor, sweet Dolssa. The feet we washed and anointed with oil—had we healed them so they could walk more ably into the flames?

I gazed at the cross above the altar, and the figure of Christ dying there. Could it ever be true, what this friar said? Was Dolssa an affront to our Lord’s holiness?

Oh, Johan the Evangelist,
I cried in my heart to the shrine where days ago I’d prayed.
You who were also called by our Lord, “Beloved.” Plead for us, and help us.

I didn’t realize I was crying until dark spots splashed onto my bodice. Symo elbowed me and frowned. I didn’t care. Let him despise me, the unfeeling monster.

A movement from the back startled me. Footsteps from the rear, striding down the aisle again. It was the knight, Senhor Hugo, once more. The friar seemed as surprised by this interruption as I was. My sisters and I held one another’s hands. I realized I’d taken hold of Symo’s hand, too. I shook it off like contagion.

The knight halted a few paces before the friar.

“Yes?” asked Lucien de Saint-Honore.

His bearing as a man of war seemed to discomfit the preacher. They watched each other until Senhor Hugo went down on one knee and bowed his head.

“Friar Lucien,” he said loudly, “I offer myself and my sword to your service in this part of Christendom, to carry out God’s work.”

Lucien de Saint-Honore closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He rested a hand upon the knight’s shoulder.

“Bless you, soldier of the cross,” was his reply. “I gratefully accept your service in God’s name.”

When his eyes opened, they gazed heavenward, rapt with adoration and gratitude.

LOP

op the
bayle
returned home to his small
maisoṇ
after mass and pulled off his shoes.

The old woman who cooked and cleaned for him a few times a week had left a pot of something on his hearth. He poked at the fire and threw on a few more sticks. It reminded him of last night’s execution, and he shuddered.

It was a good living, acting as Guilhem’s
bayle
. No one troubled him, and he got his money. The mighty must acknowledge him, and the peasants must fear him. So long as he was strong and able, it was a good life, if dull sometimes for want of friendship. But friendship doesn’t fend off starvation in winter, nor shelter anyone from the deadly winds of political and religious conflict that had raged throughout Lop’s lifetime.

Still. That burning woman. She hadn’t stopped burning, behind his eyelids, since this morning. All through breakfast. All through mass. He never took this job wishing to throw old gray
femnas
in the fire. A woman of the same age as his own mother, were she still alive. Who wanted to do that?

But he’d done it. Lop would never be found lacking in his job.

Dieu
, he was tired.

There was a knock at the door. He pulled on his shoes and rose. His sleepless night haunted him now. He opened the door to find the Tolosan knight, Senhor Hugo, standing there.

Lop, as a rule, did not show surprise. He genuflected, befitting the nobleman’s rank.

“Senhor de Miramont,” he said, “how may I serve you?”

“Your name is Lop?”

“
Oc
.” He bowed again. “Would you care to come inside my home?”

“
Grácia
.” Senhor Hugo pulled his cloak about his sides and ducked through the door. He was a much taller man than stocky Lop. He sat upon a stool next to the fire.

The
bayle
pulled a pitcher of wine and some cups from a shelf, but the knight waved the offer away. Lop put them back.

“Good
bayle
,” the knight said. “What can you tell me about the woman executed last night?”

Lop ran his hand over his wiry whiskers. Danger tingled in the air. He must choose his words carefully.

“She did not much welcome death,” he said. “I can say that much.”

“Who among us does?”

Lop met his gaze. “There are some,” he said, “who seem to court it.”

“What else?”

Lop watched the man’s face. “Her name was Dolssa.”

“Did she state that as her name?”

Lop shook his head. “
Non
. It’s what Senhor Guilhem said.”

“So he was with you, then, last night?”

“For much of the time,
oc
.”

Lop wondered to what these questions tended, but he knew not to pry. This knight betrayed no urgency, no desire, but pressed his questions coolly upon him.

“Where was the woman found?”

Lop rubbed his beard. “I don’t know,” he said. “It was Senhor Guilhem who found her and arrested her. Somewhere outside of the
vila
, I think.”

The knight sat and watched Lop until even he, veteran of trouble, broke his gaze and looked away. He looked back. Another question seemed to hang in the air.

Lop went on the offensive.

“Did you know the woman, Senhor?”

Nothing could ruffle Senhor Hugo. “I was there when she was sentenced in Tolosa.
Oc
.”